


Holding Back

by Kass



Series: The Sentinel fanworks [32]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, First Time, M/M, Remembrance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-11
Updated: 2008-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of "Remembrance," what's Jim holding back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding Back

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Justine and Sihaya Black for the beta-read.

Things seemed clear this afternoon when we caught Aaron Foster, but clouds rolled in by sundown. Now it's pouring: another slick, nasty winter night. I'm standing by the window, watching the living room's reflection bead down the pane, the way everything distorts.

Dad's okay. And Sally, too: by the time I got Dad back to the house she'd washed her face and cleaned up the debris from the knick-knacks that sonofabitch broke. She looked totally calm, although I could hear her heart speed up when I brought him inside. Makes me wonder, not for the first time, if they were ever...more than just employer and housekeeper.

Not that I can really imagine it. Then again, who can imagine their parent screwing anybody? Sandburg probably could. Somehow I don't think I'll ask him.

But Dad's all right. The doctor at the ER gave him a thorough check-up. Asked where my partner was, too, which made Dad give me a glance I chose to pretend I hadn't seen. Anyway, he gave Dad a prescription for a low-grade muscle relaxant, since his back's likely to seize up when the shock of the afternoon wears off, and then sent us home.

They asked if I'd stay for dinner-Sally was making soup, said she could stretch it for three-but I declined. It didn't take sentinel senses to see Dad's disappointment, but I couldn't bring myself to stay. Once he was out of danger, the protective impulse cooled and I was caught up in how angry I am, again. I can't have dinner with him. Not yet. Everything's too raw.

Funny how memories more than two decades old can burn like this. He knew about the senses. He lied to me. Pile that on top of the resentment I knew was there, the shit about him never being there, and you've got a recipe for a fucking ulcer.

The hardest part is, he got old while I wasn't looking. I hadn't seen him in a few years and the signs of his aging were a shock. And then I thought Aaron had killed him, which blew all of this anger right out of the water. For a while, anyway.

I don't want to lose him. Not until I've had a chance to...what? Tell him he ruined my fucking life? Tell him I hate him? Tell him I love him?

Amazing to feel this kind of fury against a guy so frail.

Like Sandburg said. Who had the most power over Aaron Foster?

* * *

"No football this time?"

Sandburg hangs his wet coat and wobbles on one foot, then the other, to unlace his boots. I unclasp my hands, as if to confirm that they're empty, and join him on the sofa.

"Nah. That was Tuesday." Trying to keep the joke going, although it feels a little flat.

"How're you-"

"Where've you-"

We start at the same time. He stops; I try again. "Where've you been?"

"At Rainier."

"What the hell do you even do over there?"

It's an old line, but it makes him grin. "Oh, you know. Flirt with coeds and call it office hours." There's a pause. "How're you doing?" Carefully nonchalant.

I shrug. "Dad's okay."

He gives me a look that says, 'that isn't what I asked,' but I pretend not to see that one, too. "Guy at the ER asked about you."

"Huh." He obviously isn't falling for my attempt to change the subject. He's fiddling with the buttons on his flannel. I can hear his thumbnail clicking over the small ridges.

Finally he speaks again. "You sure you don't want to talk?"

"We're talking now."

He rolls his eyes, annoyance warring with amusement. "You're such a pain in the ass. You know what I mean."

I sigh. "No, Chief, I don't want to talk about my father. Or Bud. Or the Country Club Strangler. I want to eat some dinner and drink a few beers and go to bed."

He stands and stretches, vertebrae popping into place, and I catch a glimpse of pale belly before his shirt rides back down. There's an instant of desire, as familiar to me as breathing, and then the equally-familiar instant of pushing that desire away. He's off-limits. Not by his preference, but by mine.

"Whatever you want, man," he says, easily.

Yeah. Right. You have no idea what I want, Sandburg, and I intend to keep it that way.

* * *

  
I'm standing on the roof of the building, hands tucked into the warm place between my arms and my body, looking out over the city. The rain's let up; it's the middle of the night and I can make out a few dim stars. There's a blue cast to everything, faintly luminous.

"Enquiri."

I want to turn but I can't move; I'm frozen in place. Incacha's voice comes from behind me, but it's not something I hear with my ears; I'm hearing it like the sound's already inside my head.

"Don't you listen?"

"Listen to what?"

Noiselessly Incacha moves to stand in front of me, at the edge of the roof, his back to the night sky. He looks exactly the same: hair braided, face painted as if this were an important occasion, a ceremony. When he opens his mouth this time, it's not his voice I hear, but Bud's.

"You could be anything you want to be, Jimmy, but...sometimes you hold back. It's as though you're afraid to trust yourself."

"Damn it, Incacha, what am I supposed to-"

"Don't you trust yourself, Jim?"

Now it's Sandburg's voice. And then Incacha leans backwards and falls, body perfectly stiff, and my feet finally dislodge from the floor and I run to the edge of the building, not wanting him to die again, panicking, and that's when I wake up.

I've seen Incacha before in dreams, but never quite like this. I don't think I've ever dreamed about Bud. And usually when I dream about Sandburg I'm either dreaming about work, in which case he appears about as often as anyone else from the PD-or else I'm dreaming about Sandburg, himself. Those dreams are different.

I never know whether to hope for one of those dreams or not. On the one hand, I've had some of the best sex of my life in those dreams: hands, mouth, cock, ass, his and mine in every combination I can think of. On the other hand, there's something a little sick about carrying on an imaginary affair with someone who actually lives in your house.

Not to mention it's always a little depressing to wake up.

* * *

  
The Incacha dream repeats itself three or four times over the course of the night. He speaks Bud's words, or my father's; his voice turns into Sandburg's; and then he falls off the building and I wake up in a cold sweat. It sucks, and it means I'm basically a zombie on Friday.

Simon keeps me at the PD all day. I don't know if it's because Sandburg isn't around or because he can tell I'm not all-here, but for once I'm glad to be stuck at my desk. The day is a blur of paperwork, burnt coffee, and surreptitious games of Solitaire when no one else has an angle of sight to my machine.

Sandburg's not there when I get home. I used to like coming home to a quiet apartment, but now it just feels...empty. It always reminds me that at some point he's going to finish his PhD and the apartment's going to be empty again for real.

I throw a frozen pizza in the oven and channel-surf. Mostly I think about this fucking case. It may be over, but it isn't over.

The thing about memories is, they're hard to shake. Sandburg says it's no wonder I repressed finding Bud; he was more a father to me than Dad was, that kind of thing's hell on a kid. He has a point. Shit, I knew guys in the Army who forgot finding their buddies or their CO's dead, and those were grown men.

What Sandburg doesn't know is that there was more to that memory than just Bud lying bloody-throated in the leaves. That's the grisly part, but it's not the part that gets me the most now.

_// I warned you about your fantasies, didn't I?//_

The more I replay the words, the more it seems like they mean more than Dad knew. Or did he?

_//People are going to think you're a freak! You understand? Huh?//_

Did he know what else he was asking me to hide? Could he have known, even then? I don't think I knew; then again, it's hard to know what memories to trust.

By high school I knew I wasn't straight, but I'd forgotten what I could see and hear. My senses atrophied like muscles. I didn't know they were there. I thought I was only locked in one closet, not two.

The truth is, I probably would have gotten the stay-in-the-closet message anyway. I didn't know anyone gay growing up; hell, I didn't know anyone who wasn't rich and white, with the exception of Sally.

But hearing directly from Dad that I should hide my differentness...I couldn't have imagined coming out. As anything.

Part of me always wondered if I was the reason Mom left. It's a pretty normal thing for a kid to think, especially when no one explains or offers consolation for his parents' split-up, but I really believed it for a while. Maybe there was something wrong with me. Maybe she knew I wasn't normal, and couldn't take it. Maybe she thought I was a freak, like Dad did.

That's the lesson my father taught me: freaks wind up alone.

* * *

  
Saturday morning I'm up early. I need something to do, so after I eat an English muffin I start removing books from the shelf in my room. It's cold out, but clear: good day to haul the bookshelf up to the roof, sand it, and throw on a coat of new stain. I've been meaning to do it for months.

I have to wear a surgical mask for sanding: otherwise the dust gets in my nose and mouth and I can't breathe right for days. Still, the work's mindless and feels good, and the mask means Sandburg can't come up here and expect me to talk. Thank God: he's been after me all week.

I've been thinking a lot about him, which makes the notion of talking even less appealing than usual. I can't help wondering what he knows about me, what he doesn't know. I'm not sure how many notebooks and cassette tapes he's filled with the details of my life; I've never asked to see his notes. What's worth recording? Who is he writing for?

I wonder what he's written about this Foster thing. Whether he's written about my father, about the closet Dad effectively shut me in. And that makes me wonder if either of them know about my other closet. I think they do; they have to, by now. But neither one of them has ever asked, and I'm not about to tell.

I can't count the times I've thought about coming out to Sandburg. Coming clean about everything. There've been men who knew I wasn't straight, of course; a couple in the army, more in gay bars where I knew I wouldn't see them again. But no one's ever known both of my secrets.

I've thought about saying something, imagined how the scene might go, but I haven't been able to do it.

I know he's interested in me; he always has been. That's not the problem. It's not the sex that scares me, it's everything else. He's taking his own sweet time with the dissertation, but eventually he's going to finish it, and that's what I can't picture: what comes after.

And that's when the voice in my head reminds me that after the dissertation, he's probably leaving. It's bad enough opening my psyche for that fucking research paper: I can't open the rest of me. Not when I know he's temporary.

* * *

The stain goes on smooth, and the cold air dries it fast: I finish the coat of urethane just as it's getting dark. I kick the door of the apartment with my boot, not wanting to touch the doorknob with sticky hands, and when Sandburg answers it he's got the phone cradled between his shoulder and one ear.

"He's here now, hang on," he says, then reaches towards me with the phone. "It's your dad."

A wave of conflicting emotions washes over me; I tamp it down, shaking my head. "My hands are covered with varnish, Sandburg, tell him I'll call back."

"Did you hear-yeah, uh-huh. Book-case, I think."

I'm deliberately focusing on the sound of hot water in the sink, not listening to Dad's side of the call.

"I think we can drop by tomorrow, anyway. But I'll have him call. Uh-huh. Bye."

Drop by tomorrow? No fucking way, pal. But I don't say that at first; I stand by the sink scrubbing for a while. I've always hated the feeling of plastic congealing on my skin; with the senses it's even worse. Finally satisfied, I turn off the tap, dry my hands on a dish towel and walk over to the couch where Sandburg's reading. I sit on the other end and wait for him to look up at me.

"I'm not going over there."

He puts the book down, splayed open, on the floor. "Jim, if anyone else we know had been abducted by a psycho, we'd go visit and make sure they were okay. Take a bottle of wine or some fruit or something."

He's got a point, but I'm not conceding. "He's not your father; this isn't your business."

He snorts, like he thinks that's funny. "He's _your_ father: it's close enough."

I roll my eyes. "You're talking out your ass, here, Chief."

"Look, Naomi wasn't perfect either, okay? You've got to accept that your dad fucked up and _move on_, Jim."

His voice has gotten louder, his face is intent, his hands are drawing square gestures of frustration in the air.

"You don't know the whole story."

"What? What am I missing?"

"He knew." It makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it, but Sandburg's suddenly gone quiet, and I make myself keep going. "He knew about the senses."

"When?"

"When I was a kid. When I found Bud. He told the cops I was lying, told me not to make people think I was a freak."

Sandburg sits back in the sofa, exhales, lets his shoulders fall. "He was worried about you."

"Like fucking hell he was worried about me! He was worried about what people would think."

"You've got to let go of that."

I stand up. I don't usually use my size in our arguments, but right now I want to tower over him. "Fuck. No."

"It's not that big a-"

"You don't know what it was like."

He takes a breath. "Look. No parent should ever ask a child to be closeted." Hearing the words in his mouth shocks my spine into rigidity. Does he know? Does he suspect? Or is it just that the parallels are too obvious to ignore, to talk around? "He shouldn't have said those things to you. That was silencing, it was invalidating, it was...shitty, man." His eyes are locked on mine like the sights on a gun. "But you've got to let it go."

I don't answer. I can feel the muscle in my jaw jumping, but I don't unclench.

"You're still-you're still stuck in adolescent rebellion," he says. "Look, the first step towards maturity is realizing that your parents are flawed, that they fucked up. You're there, man, you're there all the way." He's looking up at me, leaning forward, head tilted slightly, and I file the image away for later. "But the next step is acknowledging that your parents fucked up but loving them anyway."

"Is that where you are with Naomi?" It comes out as a taunt.

Sandburg leans back, letting the tension out of his body, and gives a little laugh. "That's where I'll always be with Naomi." He drains his beer and puts the bottle carefully on a magazine.

I thought that was going to piss him off, but it seems to have been the right thing to say; the argument seems to be over, at least for now. That's okay with me; I don't really want to be talking about this anyway. I sit back down.

"How did she react when you came out?"

The slight dilation of his pupils betrays his surprise. He came out to me the week he moved in; we haven't talked about it since.

"She cried a little." His voice is slightly deeper, reflective. "She told me she didn't want me to be hurt. And then she wished me luck in finding the person or people I was supposed to spend my life with." He chuckles. "Guess she never figured they'd turn out to be cops."

Fuck. Fuck, no, we are not having this conversation. I knew there was a reason I didn't talk about this with him. Time to nip this in the bud.

"Nah. You're just procrastinating."

It takes a moment for my words to sink in, but the grin leaves his face. "You think the paper's what's keeping me here."

I shrug. "Something like that."

"That's really what you think of me."

It isn't, it is-I don't want to think it, but I can't help myself. I want him more than anything, but I can't let on. Not with this fucking paper hanging over us.

His hands tense into near-fists. "You fucking asshole." His voice is strung tight, like it's about to break.

"Hit me with your best shot." I'm not sure I'm going to say it until the words are out of my mouth. Something in me knows he's not actually going to hit me, and I barely have time to wonder whether I should've kept my mouth shut before he's moved across the sofa and into my space, thumbs closing around the back of my neck, mouth on mine.

God, he tastes good. And feels good. Body on mine, strong and hard. We're both hard, God, God, I can't believe I'm letting this happen. He's biting my lip, gently, then pulling away.

"We can't do this." My voice is a rasp.

"We can," he corrects, gently. He moves towards me slightly, then stops, pulls back. Closes his eyes for a second, then opens them. "Jim." He's quiet, now, which gets my attention. "I don't want to do anything you don't want to do. Say the word and I won't touch you again."

I close my eyes. This is a mistake, it's a terrible mistake, I know it's a mistake but I can't keep the words back. "Don't stop."

I expect to feel his body on mine again, but instead I feel the couch tilt slightly towards me as he stands. I open my eyes to find him standing in front of me, shirt rumpled and mouth wet from kissing, which makes my pants suddenly even tighter. He reaches for my arm, pulls me to my feet, leads me through the french doors into his room.

The whole loft smells a little bit like Sandburg, but in this room it's a hundred times stronger: his deodorant, his shampoo, his hormones, his sweat. I take a deep breath, wanting to remember.

He's pulling my shirt loose, unfastening the buttons, slipping it off my shoulders. We kiss again and his shirt warms my skin. Somehow we get his shirt off, he unfastens my jeans. Somehow our clothes wind up in a pile on the floor even though we keep kissing, long hard kisses that leave me unsure who's in control, who's flying this plane.

Part of me is panicking. _You're not supposed to let him in, you can't let him see you like this, you don't know where his allegiances lie._

I can't shake the fear, but I can ignore it, even if it leaves me unsure whether my tremors are from the fear or from desire. I taste the faint salt of his jaw, let myself suck his neck, feel the blood pulsing in time with his heartbeat beneath my lips.

Every surface of his body imprints on mine: the hair on his thighs and belly and the curls at his groin, his hard cock jutting into me, the grainy surfaces of his skin, his callused fingers writing hieroglyphs on my shoulders and back. His body on mine, his tongue in my mouth: it's too much, I break away, panting.

We've gone too far to stop: I push him towards the bed and climb over him where he lies. Being on top gives me the illusion of being in charge, lets me loosen fear's cold irons. I kiss him, leave marks on his throat, pull back and tease his nipples with my fingers and thumb. He lets me, legs open as if in surrender. His breathy gasps and sighs are like hands all over me.

We wind up lying on our sides, legs tangled and fingers exploring. I trace his heavy cock with my hand and he groans: the skin is soft and hot, like nothing else in the world. "Anything," he murmurs, the first words we've spoken since this terrifying thing began. "Anything you want."

For an instant I almost say, _Tell me you'll stay here. Tell me you're in this for me, not for your dissertation. Tell me I'm not a freak. Tell me I'm not alone._

"Fuck me," I ask instead.

He inhales, hard, almost a gasp, and I think there's tenderness in his eyes.

Maybe he knows it's been a while; maybe he's just enjoying himself. Either way, he takes a long time to prepare me, fingers stroking in and out of me until I'm breathing hard and just barely this side of begging. Then there's a pause for the condom and the sound of more lube, and then he's pushing insistently inside.

Even given how badly I wanted it, it hurts. But slowly the pain is met by pleasure; then the ratio shifts; then the pleasure's all that's left. Deep, shivering pleasure that has us both making noise. Every one of our moans is like another match on the fire.

He lifts his right hand from where we've both been bracing ourselves and skims it down my body, taking my cock in his palm, stroking his thumb over the tip. The dual stimulation makes me almost sob.

"Come for me," he whispers, and I do. He comes a split second after, and the throb of him inside me makes my orgasm longer, sweeter, more aching.

After a moment he lets me go and pulls out. I imagine I can feel reluctance in his slowness, but in a second he's gone, tugging the condom free and throwing it in the trash can, pulling a blanket over the wet spot, hands urging me down to entwine with him. I don't mean to stay there, but sleep claims me fast.

* * *

  
The Incacha dream doesn't come. When I wake it's morning.

The instant consciousness returns panic and exultation rise in my belly like fighting kites. I untangle myself from the sheets, from his limbs, and slip away.

I shower for a long time. Only my hands got scrubbed after my woodworking yesterday, and traces of sawdust linger in my pores. My limbs are dusty; my belly and crotch are sticky. It takes a while for me to really feel clean.

Plus I can hear him waking, sitting up, shuffling into the kitchen to make coffee. I don't want to face him.

But I do: I shut off the water, dry off, tie my robe tight and leave my steamy sanctuary.

He seems to know something's off: he offers me coffee, wordlessly, in one of the mugs thick enough to keep from burning my hands.

"I can't do this."

A shadow crosses his face, but he doesn't say anything yet.

"You're in too deep."

His lip twitches, almost a smile. "I thought you wanted me there."

"It's too early in the morning for comedy, Sandburg."

He chuckles. "I meant it both ways."

I put the mug down, rub one hand over my face. I hate these conversations.

"I did want you there." It's like speaking shards of glass. "But I can't do this, Chief-it's too close. I can't let you in if you're not going to stay."

"I'm staying." His voice is earnest. He means what he's saying; I can tell from his tone, the size of his pupils, the tilt of his posture. "You believe me, right?"

I want to, but I can't quite. I don't answer.

It's answer enough. His expression doesn't change, but I can see him closing down a little. It hurts. "Have it your way."

I should leave well enough alone, but I can't. "I'm sorry, Chief," I begin. He cuts me off.

"When's it going to be long enough, Jim? When I've been here four years? Five?"

_When you hand in that dissertation_, I almost say. But I don't. It'd skew my data: the act of asking him to commit to our partnership would change the partnership, would fuck things up. I want him to commit to me because he wants to, not because I asked him to. And I don't think he can really want to until this paper is finished. Until then I can't trust what he says he wants.

"Okay," he says, finally, turning away. He stands up and walks into the bathroom; the shower turns on, the curtain squeaks back on its rod. For a minute I just sit, stupidly, staring into my coffee cup as if there were answers in it.

There aren't. The scent of his shampoo jerks me back into reality, and makes me ache, and I realize I'm not up to spending today with him. We need some space, to get things back the way they were before. Maybe it's a good day to drive north and see how far I can get before nightfall.

I dress while he's in there. By the time he comes out, I'm gone.


End file.
